


The Lark

by thalialunacy



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 08:48:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalialunacy/pseuds/thalialunacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The newest Duke of Albion makes a tactical retreat to the estate of one Sir Gwaine for a few weeks. He expects days of hunting, reading, and brooding by the fire. He doesn't expect a clumsy valet named Emrys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lark

**Author's Note:**

> Written for summerpornathon, prompted by the sound of boots on gravel. This is the longer, original version. Thanks to jazzy_peaches for being my brainstorming buddy. Warnings: internalised homophobia as per the time period, slight dub-con as per their stations.

Smells of a thunderstorm, Arthur thinks briefly as he ducks out of the carriage; indeed, upon first glance, the clouds behind the estate look ominous. 

"My Lord," the butler intones from his place at the front of a line of servants, "may I present to you His Grace, the Duke of Albion." Arthur forces himself not to look around for his father. Two months and he's no more used to it than he was the first time.

Luckily, Gwaine's already taken three swift strides across the gravel drive and enveloped Arthur in a firm embrace. "Good to see you, Princess," he says into Arthur's ear. Arthur grins. He already feels better.

Gwaine pulls back, leaving an arm slung over Arthur's shoulders, and gestures widely to the staff and the looming house behind them. "My home and all that is in it are yours for the duration, my good friend."

"Thank you, kind sir," Arthur replies with affection, looking over the lot as Gwaine names the important staff; he concludes by guiding Arthur over to the valet he's probably just named, but Arthur's not really paying much attention. He's stayed here before and the staff is courteous and accommodating and keeps out of his affairs, never caused him a second of—

"And his name is Emrys," Gwaine finishes, and Arthur is set upon—quite rudely, all told—by a pair of wide storm-blue eyes as the valet meets Arthur's gaze head-on. Gwaine seems to think the cheek humorous. "He's a bit of a rapscallion, but he is also the best."

"The best, you say?" Arthur says, unable to look away from Emrys—alarming ears and all—and unable to school the sudden ache that's bloomed in his chest. Damn it all to hell and back again; he'd thought that lark over and done with.

"The best," Emrys himself replies, with a hint of a bashful, yet sly smile on his face. Arthur is beset by the compulsion to swear a blue streak.

That lark, as it turns out, had not yet even begun to sing.

\---

The first morning, Arthur wakes to the sound of Emrys tripping over something. "So much for the very best," he mumbles into his pillow, trusting Emrys at least has decorum and will refrain from—

"Don't be so quick to judge, Your Grace." Arthur grunts in disbelief and turns his head just enough—and swears he catches Emrys's gaze running down the length of his sheet-clad form, but then it's over and Arthur concludes it must've been a trick of the light. "These hands, I've heard tell, have magic in them."

"Magic, eh?"

"To which you will bear witness, should you ever choose to get out of bed." The _Your Grace_ is missing; the _You lazy arse_ is heavily implied in its stead.

\---

At the first touch, the first brush of Emrys's hand against his neck as he—expertly, indeed—ties Arthur's cravat, the lightning crashes into Arthur, awakening something in his skin, in his very teeth, and it's all he can do not to grab onto Emrys's hands and pull them down, into him as far as he can get, to soothe the ache the resides there.

He resists. Emrys's a servant, Emrys's not even _his_ servant, and Gwaine may dally but he is no despot and would not appreciate such abuses of power.

Not to mention Emrys is a man. A most egregious error, and something well put firmly in his past.

So Arthur resists. He resists through mornings of Emrys touching his sleep-warmed skin, evenings of Emrys somehow knowing just how many blankets he'll need, and days full of Emrys being wherever he needs him, sometimes even before Arthur realises it, and always with a wry, clever, and exceedingly inappropriate comment. Which he gives for Arthur's ears only, like they share a great secret, a great weighty understanding of the simultaneous wonder and absurdity of life. He finds himself wanting to tell Emrys things, important things, inconsequential things. All things.

But Arthur's sense of propriety is legendary for a reason. So he gallantly resists.

For nearly a fortnight.

\---

They dip into the whiskey one night, Arthur & Gwaine, and after a quiet rainy evening of childhood reminiscences Arthur returns to his rooms warm and sleepy, looking forward to the attentions of his borrowed valet.

But instead finds his room set for bed already, as if it has been thus for hours, with no valet in sight.

"Emrys!" he shouts, rapping on their connecting door. "Get your lazy arse in here and draw my bath!"

There are scrambling noises, then the door opens, and Arthur finds his face scant inches from Emrys's. "I'm sorry, Your Grace," he says, slightly out of breath. "I was told you wouldn't be needing me tonight." 

God must truly hate Arthur, truly, because he's a bit drunk and Emrys is flushed and in his nightclothes and _right bloody there_.

Arthur is checkmated two moves into the match. He slides a hand firmly behind Emrys's neck and pulls him in for a bruising kiss.

He drinks in the surprised noise Emrys makes, revels in the feeling of those damnable hands coming up to his chest, first to push away then— then not pushing away at all, instead fastening onto Arthur's lapels and pulling him in, pulling him closer, as their mouths meet for a second kiss, this time wide open and wanting.

Oh, Arthur wants. And, as it looks as though Emrys wants, too, Arthur will _have_.

He's loathe to break the kiss, but he reaches up and grasps Emrys's hands in his, then tugs them towards the bed. Emrys goes unhesitatingly, but protests, words falling out of his reddened mouth like stones into a pond. "Your Grace…" The hissed plea has a hint of command in it, and Arthur finds he rather likes it. "You— We mustn't."

"No, we mustn't," Arthur agrees as he tumbles them down, then captures Emrys's lips again, stopping the flow of words with his tongue and his hands, rucking up Emrys's clothes to the glorious pale skin and hard lines underneath.

"Your Grace…" Emrys tries again, his voice catching as Arthur fits their hips together. Arthur makes a disapproving noise at the honorific, nips at Emrys's neck as he starts up a delicious, rough, rutting slide. He feels Emrys swallow, then try again. "Pendragon…"

Arthur laughs into his skin. "Arthur, all right? For the love of God, man, I have a name and I'd expect you'd want to use it at a time like this."

Emrys's eyes flash. "As I am your servant, Your Grace—"

Arthur stops him right quickly. "If you think that is the only reason I have you here in my bed—" He stops, because Emrys's expression makes it clear that that _is_ what he believes.

"Oh, Emrys," he says quietly, an ache in his chest. "You have no idea, do you?"

Emrys's eyes narrow. "Of what?"

Arthur breathes in, then forges onward. "Of the power you hold over me. Of how my life these past two weeks has been, for the first time since my father died, something more than simply palatable."

"Sir Gwaine—"

"Is not the first person I wish to see every morning, nor the last person I wish to see every night." He strokes a thumb over Emrys's cheekbone. "So, Merlin—" He registers Emrys's startled expression with pleasure. "It's Arthur, if you please."

And he goes in for Emrys's—Merlin's lips again. Soft words stop him. "Those are our Christian names. This is hardly Christian."

Arthur's jaw tightens, just for a moment. He studies Merlin's face, studies the feeling of Merlin's flesh against his, and studies his own heart. Then he shakes his head with a smile before leaning in. "Oh, I think God wouldn't have made us this way if not—" He lifts his hips, reaches down, and circles them both with his palm. "—for pleasure."

He chases Merlin's mouth when Merlin groans at the contact but Merlin is stubborn. "For pleasure, yes, but— Arthur— Oh—"

His blood surges at hearing his name. They're both close, and mad with it. "But what?"

Merlin's hand is suddenly covering his, helping, coaxing; shared breath runs hot between their lips. "Not for anything more."

Arthur feels it in his marrow. "No, of course not," he agrees in a roughshod voice, run ragged, worn down by the sheer force of it. His forehead rests against Merlin's, his lips forming kisses against sweat-speckled skin almost of their own volition.

Merlin's voice, as he captures Arthur's lips fiercely, is barely a wrecked murmur, but with a thread of steel. "Nothing more than this."

 _Which is everything_ , Arthur thinks with blinding clarity as his body climaxes, spending seed onto their hands and their clothes and probably the bedclothes, too. As he feels Merlin seed join his, feels the shudders that wrack Merlin's body, he doesn't care a whit.

They fall into each other, a lumpy pile of man on an abused bed. Arthur breathes in the smell of him, of them, of their coupling. He thinks of his empty estate, of the cold mornings, of the hard wood of his father's casket. He thinks of the clucking mamas and fragile young things of the _ton_. He thinks of how full of laughter his last two weeks have been, and bickering, and hands caring for him, always caring.

"Emrys," he drawls quietly, happiness making him quite the cake.

"Yes, Your Grace?" Arthur can feel the twist of Merlin's lips on the title, and it makes him grin.

He gathers him closer, slotting their legs together, feeling their hearts slow in tandem. He kisses across Merlin's jaw, tightens his grip on Merlin's back. "How would you feel about a change of employer?"

Merlin's head comes up, and Arthur waits as he searches out the sincerity in Arthur's visage. A slow smile spreads across his face when he finds it.

"Depends on the pay, I expect."

Arthur guffaws outright, and he lunges forward to tumble them once more into the sheets, into each other. He drinks in Merlin's laughter, Merlin's gasps, Merlin's love.

 _Merlin_.

The lark is in full song.

**_fin ___**

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Lark (The Beau Brummel Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1462075) by [glim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/pseuds/glim)




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